CHAPTER TWO

"i've been on the run since I was a boy. but now I'm done running, got another thing coming. watch my enemies get destroyed. oh, I've got troubles of more than one kind, but I never sleep, gotta bury me six feet deep."

bury me face down - grandson

When Albus instructed her to walk to the 9 3/4 station at King's Cross, she did not think much of it. Now, standing in front of a wall with a cart and a perplexed look, she thought it might have been an impractical joke. Varya glanced around, spotting a few boys with similar carts approaching. They paid her no mind as they pulled in front of the wall and then, suddenly, started running at full speed towards it. Before Varya could scream in shock, they disappeared without a trace.

The girl continued to stare at it, mouth agape until she pulled herself out of it. She backtracked a little, making sure to align herself with the wall, then ran towards it much as the previous boy had. She did not close her eyes, believing in herself.

Once she was on the other side, she bustled towards the train as the last few passengers boarded, steps flattering as they neared the entrance. Using a balustrade to propel herself upwards, the witch lurched in the corridor, barely moving out of the way of a soaring white owl. Its feathers fluttered through the surroundings, leisurely descending upon her onyx hair, and Varya plucked it out with a simper on her face. There was something oddly melancholic about the moment, a chaotic salute to her future, and desolation tidied into her bones, tasting the marrow sheltered in her spine and having the witch shiver.

Back in Romania, she did not have many close friends, as it was discouraged to depend on anyone except yourself. Nevertheless, she had a sense of familiarity when she was around her classmates, as she had known them for four years.

Thinking back to her first day, Varya could not help but be melancholic. As much as she found the school dreadfully terrifying, it had been her home. The early breakfasts in the Dark Church, the hours spent in the dungeon classes while performing rituals and curses, the time spent studying occult objects in the backyard. Now, on foreign territory, she debated her choice.

"Move out of the way!" a voice enunciated through the bustling corridor, making the witch reemerge from the land of reverie and dash backward. Varya hit the doors of a compartment, then promptly stepped inside to avoid blocking the hallway. She scowled at the passing form, string of curses just barely managing to not fall from her lips, and sighed deeply. There was no point in causing a ruckus on her first day, attracting attention she so desperately did not wish to settle upon her.

"May I help you?" a voice sounded from behind her, and she quickly turned to find a blonde boy sitting in one of the seats, obviously annoyed at the interruption. He did not seem to be doing much, and yet he was clearly bothered by her presence.

Varya gawked at him, scrutinizing his stature. He must have been the same age as her, maybe a year older, with angular eyebrows and a witty expression. If anything, he was charming, although entirely different from the boys at her school, who had a much more intimidating demeanor. The boy stood adequately in one of the train's seats, legs crossed as he looked at her with vexation. There was something adonic about him, as if he had been fragmented from a Greek collection of marvelous statues, with razor-sharp edges to his portrait and suave darkness.

"Are those seats taken?" she queried, monotony in her voice. There was no point in dwelling on small talk or introductions; her task began and ended with Tom Riddle, and any other foe was a mere pawn in an intricate game of chess.

"Yes," he replied, eyes still narrowed at her. "They are." Varya looked at the empty compartment, a scoff leaving her body. The boy raised an eyebrow at her, irritated at the attitude. To his surprise, Varya sat down opposite of him, not even sparing him a glance.

"Did you not hear me? I said they were taken!" he scowled, his timbre cracking with anger. Abraxas Malfoy was not the one to be messed with, especially not when he was already on edge. He had not managed to find any of his friends before the train took off and now, with so many first-years wandering the corridors, he feared he might have snapped and sent a few jinxes their way.

Varya looked up at him, examining his childishness. "And I believe I sat down anyway. Unless your friends are dead and their souls are in this compartment, then I believe I can sit wherever I want."

Abraxas was infuriated by her audacity, wondering who would dare raise a silver tongue against him, going to such extent as to defy a mighty heir. As he glanced at her, he regarded the lack of pigment in her uniform. A striking oddity, for the witch was no first-year, her features carrying a degree of roughness that was not expected of blossoming students. She was considerably frail, with abundant, raven locks falling over her shoulders in slight waves. Her face was sunken in, like a desiccated portrait that belonged in expressionist galleries. She was not unpleasant, far for it, but the way she moved reminded him of lesser creatures, phantoms in the background of the castle.

"Why are you not wearing your house's colors?" he asked, intrigued.

"House colors?" Varya said as she looked down at her clothes, then back up at his. A badge of a snake rested on his robe, and she could make out one word: "Slytherin."

Abraxas scoffed at her cluelessness, understanding the fact that she was a transfer. Still, where could she have come from that they did not have houses? Her accent was thick, a certain edginess hung on each word. Her features seemed harsher, more defined, and her hair was darker than most girls he had seen. He doubted she was from Beauxbatons, as her grace was nearly invisible. Durmstrang maybe?

"Are you a transfer student from Durmstrang?" he questioned her, although her puzzled expression told him he was wrong yet again. "Where are you from, then?"

Varya looked back at him, debating on whether to give an honest answer or not. She could lie and say that she was from Durmstrang, although she had no knowledge about it. But then again, did Dumbledore not say that her origins would be the ones to attract Tom Riddle? As a matter of fact, what if this was Tom Riddle standing right in front of her? He definitely looked like he could attract the attention of others, but she did not find him to be very charismatic.

From Dumbledore's words, she pictured Tom Riddle to be much more of a mystery, and while the boy before her definitely had the aura of a powerful wizard, he lacked the depth that she had expected. No, this was not Tom Riddle.

"Why would I tell you that? I do not even know who you are," her answer was curt, sharp, with the braveness of Eastern witches. Amusement passed over Abraxas' face, infused with the slightest nuance of hautiness, and he dared quirk a nonchalant eyebrow.

"Abraxas Malfoy," he said proudly, looking at her reaction. When she gave none, his eyebrows went down again. "Malfoy? One of the twenty-eight families?".

He scoffed at her lack of response, deeming it to be nothing but a charade and a jest at his authority. Perplexion painted the girl's expression with harsh strokes, and her eyebrows united in a scowl as the wizard grumbled with dissatisfaction. She was entirely lost on the matter of his name and found it baffling that he took such offense to not being recognized. There was no blood hierarchy in the Eastern lands, only power and those too weak to seek it.

"Are you a mudblood, then? How can you not know the name Malfoy?" he asked, making the girl clench her jaw. Her? A mudblood? What a laughing stock he was. She bit her tongue back, not letting her pride reveal her true identity. Although most of her lineage was still a mystery to her, she knew that her parents had once been people of high status.

"Say that I was, how would that be any of your business?" Petrov bit back fiercely, not wanting to put up with wounded egomaniacs on such short notice. The dashing boy stood up like the officer of a battalion, ready to strike against those he deemed to be the enemy, and his rigidness maintained as he twisted one hand around, promptly packing his bags.

"I will not be in the vicinity of such filth," he sneered, exiting the compartment quickly. His judgment surprised her.

Varya stood in her spot, eyes trailing his gracious movements, as if he were a mere swan paddling on a crystal lake, then let her rattled psyche fall into softer patterns. She sat down, not letting her mind linger on the boy's lack of manners, and looked outside the window, skin tingling from anticipation. Hogwarts would peak from the horizon at any moment.

***

Once the train came to a stop, Varya followed the students to the carriages. Amazed, she looked at the beautiful creatures that stood before them, emanating prideful darkness that she had not seen in a monster before. They were glorious, majestic even, carrying a certain melancholy around them as they raised their heads towards the night sky.

She jumped on one of the carriages and looked over the lake at the school. Tall towers and turrets rose to the sky, quarreling with the cerulean yodel as they seemingly scratched at clouds with pointed granite-colored rooftops. The stone that comprised the walls was carefully chipped until there was one impressive structure that appeared to be able to withstand time itself. Bridges connected wings between each other in a squared pattern, and in the middle of the four main towers there seemed to be an opening left open with courtyards.

Much to her embarrassment, Varya was sent with the first-years once they arrived at Hogwarts, as she had to be sorted. She stuck out like a thumb amongst them, as she was a good foot taller than most. Nevertheless, as her gaze fell upon Hogwarts, she could not help but gasp.

She had always thought the Scholomance castle to be impressive, the old architecture standing out amongst most buildings in the area, but it was no match for Hogwarts. She started walking forward, pushed by the crowd until she reached the entrance. Once again, she was struck by the appearance of the hallways.

They were properly lit, warm light coming from the candles and falling on to the faces of the excited first-years. The paintings on the walls smiled at them, waving cheerfully as they passed, a complete opposite of the brooding faces that were featured in the Romanian art. As her gaze wandered, it fell upon a window. Panic struck her, and she immediately looked down. Oh, but why were there no blinds? She slowly lifted up her face and looked out the window timidly, surprised to see no creature looking back at her.

What a strange feeling, she thought to herself. She could not remember the last time she felt safe standing in a school hallway, especially so close to nightfall.

As the students reached the entrance of the Great Hall, Varya noticed the similar-looking tables that stood in four rows. Familiarity fell upon her, and she embraced it, even if the room itself was nothing like the Dark Church. She aimlessly followed some first years and sat at a random table, ignoring the stares that she received.

All the way in the back, there was a table set for the teachers, who looked over the incoming students with pride in their hearts. Varya caught Dumbledore's gaze, whose eyes twinkled with joy as the first-years approached the front of the room. One of the teachers stood up, pulling a small chair to the front and placing an awfully worn hat on it.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me."

Many newcomers took a step back, surprised by the hat being able to speak. Varya's eyes widened as she heard its song, explaining the four Houses.

Gryffindor, a house of pride and chivalry, welcomed those with a sense of adventure and bravery.

Hufflepuff, for the loyal hearts who sought out the good and fair in all, welcomed those who would put in hard work and value justice above all.

Ravenclaw, the brightest minds who thrived intellectually, embraced those who had a need for knowledge and wisdom.

Slytherin, those who had ambition burning in their eyes, and stopped at nothing to achieve their goals, accepted those who were cunning and resourceful.

Varya thought back to the boy she had met on the train, his robes contemptuously showing his house's symbol, and wondered if the darkness that clung to him was that which belonged to the serpent, dripping like poison made of ambition and enchanting cunningness. There has been such a mystifying air to him, entirely alluring and yet a senseless threat of peril.

As the first-years began their sorting, she gazed at the ceiling, cherishing the night-sky fantasy. She had not seen the apollo shimmering blanket of obscurity in years, too frightened to be outside of the castle walls past bedtime. With a sigh, she acknowledged how different this school was, and her heart welcomed the despondency of those she left behind, now mere ghosts of her past. The witch knew that Hogwarts did not carry the wickedness of Scholomance, nor the blasphemous sorcery, and queried what sorcery it would present her with.

A prideful witch that answered to the lull of the dark arts, Varya Petrov was undoubtedly charcoal amongst polished gems, a murky illustration of a mighty witch. She was made of raven plumes and their grieved melody, birthed from the abyss, with heliotrope stones glimmering instead of irises. Orphaned at a young age, she had been exposed to the cruelty of the world.

Varya had grown up in the house of a sweet old lady, who treated her with kindness but did not have much to offer for herself. She had always been grateful, never asking for more, which is why her heart broke when the woman tried to have her burned at stake for witchcraft.

"Petrov Varya"

Her name rang across the hall. A deadly silence fell upon everyone; horrified faces looked at her as she got up and made her way to the front. She looked at the teachers. Even they seemed to carry resentment in their heart. Her eyes fell upon Dumbledore, who nodded as if encouraging her to take another step forward.

Whispers started filling the hall, hushed voices filling her ears—a harmony of harmful thoughts and swirls of antagonizing voices. The sixteen-year-old witch took in a deep breath, anticipating the cruelty of the words that they would throw at her, and straightened her back. To bow her head was to dishonor the name of her parents. That she would never do.

"Traitor."

"Did her parents not die?"

"Maybe she should have died too."

"SILENCE!" Dumbledore's voice echoed in the room, the whispers suddenly stopping. Varya looked at her feet, trying to gather up the courage to look back at the crowd. Now, with her back turned, she felt more vulnerable than ever. She wondered, then, if coming here had truly been a good choice.

Digging her nails in her palms once again, she headed to the chair, her steps ricochetting off of stone walls. The salon fell in a hush, eyes trailing her every movement as if she would spew poison at any student in her proximity. Obsidian locks clung around her figure, making her appear smaller than common as she took to the front of the room. Her gaze swayed around the chamber, locking on a familiar face that hardened at the sight of her.

Abraxas Malfoy looked at Varya, shock written all over his face. Of course, he thought, why could I not tell that she was from the eastern side? Even so, he doubted he could have figured out her identity. He, like multiple others, had thought that the Petrov line had died fighting alongside Grindelwald.

He hummed to himself in appreciation, welcoming the unbalance that this new student brought. As he looked around the table, he could see the uneasiness on everyone's face. Some resented her association with the dark wizard, whereas others laughed at her, hiding in the dark for all those years.

Varya sat down on the chair as one of the teachers placed the Sorting Hat upon her head. Her analysis over the room persisted, and she saw it in their eyes that they wished for her to flinch, to bow her head, and accept the label they had stuck to her name. Nevertheless, that was not something she could do, and so the witch maintained her posture as the Hat began its chatter.

"Oh, well, is this not a surprise. The end of the Petrov line, right here in the heart of the wizarding world. Who would have thought?"

"Certainly not me," Varya mumbled, keeping her voice as low as possible. Even so, it felt as if she was shouting in the silenced room.

"Ah...so many possibilities," the hat mustered. "The intellect of a Ravenclaw, that is certain. You hold vast knowledge that many do not know. It would be quite a wonderful feat. Or perhaps...perhaps you would fit better into Slytherin? The need for vengeance, for redemption, it fuels your ambition, unlike anything else. You want to prove yourself, that is certain. And the darkness that you hold is not to be brushed aside."

Varya stayed silent, unsure of what to answer.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Varya stood up, looking at the green table as confused faces glanced at each other. Eventually, they started clapping as she made her way down towards them, still unsure of what their reaction ought to be. The newest Slytherin sat down at the end of the table, across from a redheaded girl that seemed to watch her every move. Well then.

One of the professors stood up then, clearing his voice as he spoke, "Welcome back, students! As some of you know, I am headmaster Armando Dippet." His blue and bronze robes ruffled as he took a step forward to talk to the students. "As you may have already figured, this year, we have a transfer from Scholomance, a small school of magic in Southeastern Europe."

Varya scoffed at his presentation, noticing the fact that he did not mention the full name of her school, Scholomance Academy of Dark Arts. One of the boys in front of her raised his head, a disinterested look on his face until he noticed who the sound had come from.

Tom Riddle looked at Varya Petrov, curiosity evident on his features. He tried to keep himself under control, his body leaned over the table in a casual manner, but his thoughts would not stop swirling. He did not know much about her bloodline, but he could tell that her presence irked people. And he wondered why.

Curious, he thought to himself, crossing his arms and tilting his head. How could a girl get this kind of reaction from so many students? It was not just displeasure; he could tell some of them feared her. But what for?

Feeling eyes on her, Varya looked back at the boy. Her breath left her as she looked at his gorgeous appearance. His black hair fell in short curls, a strong contender against her raven color. His face had the structure of a northern man, strong features falling into place seamlessly. His eyes, ever so calculating, were of a marine blue.

He gazed at her as if trying to figure her out, then offered a small smile before going back to writing in his notebook. She could tell, however, that it was faked. Varya let the breath that she was holding out, realizing what had just happened.

She had just met Tom Riddle.